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"We had more than enough material without them, and my predicament was the just punishment of that most fatal of human follies, our not having known when to stop. It was very well to say it was no predicament, that the way out was simple, that I had only to leave Venice by the first train in the morning, after writing a note to Miss Tita, to be placed in her hand as soon as I got clear of the house; for it was a strong sign that I was embarrassed that when I tried to make up the note in my mind in advance (I would put it on paper as soon as I got home, before going to bed), I could not think of anything but "How can I thank you for the rare confidence you have placed in me?" That would never do; it sounded exactly as if an acceptance were to follow."
Considération d’Oriane (feutre bleu nuit) : j’aime bien les textes d’Henry James qui est un écrivain dont il est difficile d’extraire un fragment tant les phrases s’enchaînent aux phrases sans temps mort. De plus, une grande part de son œuvre est une profonde métaphore de l’écriture elle-même ce qui est peut-être la seule justification du désir d’écrire, activité fortement autojustificative. Sinon, dans le grand silence de l’écriture, pourquoi persister ?
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